a flare tainted
by kim-onka
Summary: You have been unmade, but you can be made again. (It should have hurt more.) / borrowed idea / warning: wildly au
1. Chapter 1

Idea by wreckitmaedhros (on tumblr), who not only draws Maedhros with Maleficient-style horns and wings (which is surprisingly awesome), not only let me run with their idea, but _also_ talked it out with me, patiently and in detail. So. Here you are :D

About: AU, experimental, dark. Written in drabbles (this time _really _100 words each).

(Also it's impossible not to go on about fire.)

* * *

><p><strong>I.<strong>

Emptiness, pain, and a voice.

'What are you, now?'

Nothing. Nothing was left. Nothing but-

'You have been unmade. Picked apart, piece by piece. What burns in your core is laid bare before my eyes-'

-that, somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable, still nagging, even now, when he could not move a muscle, itching at the heart of his aching being, relentlessly tugging-

'-unmade, but you can be made again. I can remake you, put you together again around your burning core-'

-stirring.

'-there is nothing in you I have not seen. You are mine. Accept that, and I shall remake you.'

* * *

><p><strong>II.<strong>

No.

Unacceptable.

'Yet it is the truth,' whispered the voice, or his own thought, or _that_-

The Oath stirred again, violently, in a spasm of suffering.

_You prayed for death, and it did not come; you did not dare pray for rescue, and none came. Those who abandoned you, you owe nothing. But you swore, and that you owe still; you are forbidden to remain idle._

That. Naught else. Yet-

'Come, and be whole again. Allow me to remake you.'

No.

_Yes._

(It was impossible to recall faces, recall bonds, recall reasons-)

'Come.'

No-

_Yes._

(-only that.)

'Come.'

_Yes._

'Yes.'

* * *

><p><strong>III.<strong>

Falling. Over and over, from emptiness into emptiness.

There was nothing, for a time, not even memory, not even the weight of yet more shackling words, nothing, except the lack of pain, the numbing relief.

Then the world began to reassemble itself, slowly, piece by piece, unless it was not the world, it was him.

_No one had come._ Hurt. Resentment.

_The Oath. The mission._ Whatever he bond himself with could never bind him more.

And they were here.

So close.

This was a way. The only way. The only hope for any shred of freedom left.

Whatever it took.

* * *

><p><strong>IV.<strong>

A figure of flame and shadow, circling, snarling, waiting.

Show that you deserved your chance, was the order. Show that you are worth having.

He would.

Slash. Dodge. Turn. Strike-

(He had seen that one before: the lord of Balrogs, in fight and in flight; not so now.)

-Sweep. Stab. Counter-

(_Kill_, whispers a thought, a memory of another time. _Kill. Have vengeance._)

'What's wrong, elf?'

(_Kill him. Kill him, and die._)

-Swiftly. Deftly. Deadly-

'Enough.'

(_Last chance-_)

-Hesitation. Pause.

'You have demonstrated your worth. Now, your reliability.'

He steps back.

(_-lost._)

'Good.'

(_-you are lost._)

'You shall be rewarded.'

* * *

><p><strong>V.<strong>

It should have hurt more.

All of it.

It should have worried him, how little he felt when it was done; little beyond the bloom of numbing darkness, beyond the touch of alien power.

'And so you are made anew.'

It should have felt worse, to be made into a monster.

It should have been a humiliation, and it was, to be turned into a creature such as this.

Repulsive. Not an elf anymore. They would run screaming.

_And they will._

'I must say you were excellent raw material.'

It should have scared him, how grimly satisfying the thought felt.

* * *

><p><strong>VI.<strong>

He remembered standing aside from fire, the all-consuming blaze, and it was increasingly difficult, now, to remember why.

It was the last thing that was beautiful, fire; and limitlessly powerful in its beauty. Why would he ever turn away?

Now he would sow fire wherever he went, fire tinted with shadows, and all the more mesmerizing for it; intoxicating.

He would watch the flames paint their inferno from above, and those who saw him would flee in terror, _demon, _they would say, _monster_,_ winged_ _horror, horned fiend._

What were they? Nothing.

It would be interesting, though, when _they_ saw him.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**VII.**

He had been waiting for this.

The air of utter horror, beyond even fright; the spark of recognition; his own reflection in the elf's eyes; he regarded it all with cold fascination.

'Cease this whimpering,' he snarled, lifting the trembling elf by the throat. 'You will not be hurt. Who rules over the Noldor?'

_Kanafinw__ë_. Kanafinwë was king.

Almost involuntarily, he bared his teeth.

'Look closely,' he commanded. 'Look, and tell your king.'

_Tell him what his complacency had forced me to choose._

_Tell him of the shadows in my eyes, of the collar round my neck._

'Tell him _everything._'

* * *

><p><strong>VIII.<strong>

Maglor had thought himself prepared for the worst.

Or rather, he had thought the worst already upon him: shame, contempt, knowledge; wordless accusations, screams in his mind.

This had been his choice, and he had told himself he would bear it, there was no other way.

He stared at the soldier.

He had thought – what, in his selfish delusions? That it would be _pain_, and that it was not the worst to be found in Angband; that it could also be _enslavement,_ and_ destruction_, which almost meant _death_, which almost, almost meant _relief._

Not _fealty. _Not willing service.

Not Maitimo.

* * *

><p><strong>IX.<strong>

'Maitimo would never-'

'He is Maitimo no longer.'

'Kanafinwë said-'

'Kanafinwë is both foolish and a traitor of his closest kin. As was your former friend, who is lost to us all.'

Fingon's shoulders fell. Fingolfin continued pacing.

'And this impudent coward has the nerve to call himself King of the Noldor!'

'We should have done something.'

'You tried. Which is more than any of his brothers did.'

'What of it, when I failed? He does not even know. He thinks we all abandoned him.'

'As he abandoned us. And now, betrayed us.'

'He is one of us!'

'No longer.'

* * *

><p><strong>X.<strong>

Curufin stood before his brother, his expression studiedly reserved, words carefully steel.

'_You_ are the king. Y_ou_ must decide upon a course of action.'

'I may not remain king for long. There has been unrest-'

'Which is precisely what we need to counteract, elsewise Nolofinwë might do it for us.'

'So Nolofinwë wishes for me to surrender the crown.'

'As you know well.'

'I had been keeping it for Maitimo.'

The younger brother bridled.

'Do you think you alone grieve? He is not coming back, and could not lead us if he did. He is lost.'

'I know,' said Maglor.

* * *

><p><strong>XI.<strong>

'You would sit here and play king, while your brother-'

Despite himself, Maglor flinched.

'-yes, your brother, little as it seems to matter to you! He taunts us, naming himself our rightful ruler and you but a usurper, and proclaims himself innocent of your betrayal-'

'Of that he truly is innocent.'

Fingolfin paused, startled.

'How so?'

'He stood aside.'

The elder elf narrowed his eyes.

'You do know you are not helping your case.'

Indeed.

_Why mention it now?_

_It is the truth._

He felt so very weary.

'Rest assured I will not leave it like that, Kanafinwë.'

Very well.

* * *

><p><strong>XII.<strong>

The sword rested against Maglor's throat.

'Do not look away. _Do not look away._ Is this not what you came to see?'

'Nelyo-'

Blood trickled down the elf's neck, a thin rivulet.

'You were ever audacious. I have no interest in your excuses.'

'I have none.'

'Good.'

Silence.

The horrified revulsion was evident in Maglor's eyes, and he stared on, savouring it, drinking in the dread.

'What has he _done_ to you?'

'Nothing you did not consent to.'

'And you? Did _you_ consent?'

Hesitation. Anger.

'What choice do you think I had?'

'I only see the choice you made, Maitimo.'


	3. Chapter 3

This is, in certain aspects, quite a thought-out project, and as such it comes with not one but _two_ lists of names. And so: Black Speech name by wreckitmaedhros, Sindarin names by me. (Okay, so I'm only using three. But we do have two lists. Marvel.)

* * *

><p><strong>XIII.<strong>

He glared at the elf, who stood unflinching.

When the word came out, it was as a growl.

'_Disappear_.'

'No.'

'Get lost before I lose patience.'

'Kill me, then. Have vengeance. Or have me taste your fate.'

'You know not what you speak of.'

'No, I do not.' Maglor's face creased, and for the briefest moment his composure seemed about to crack; and it would have felt right, vilely, sickly _right_ to watch this elf fracture in pain-

-but the moment passed, fleeting, and only the elf's eyes betrayed the intensity of his anguish.

'I do not know. Tell me.'

* * *

><p><strong>XIV.<strong>

Hesitation.

_Tell him. Make him suffer-_

'I _told_ you to disappear.'

'This happened when I left you. I am not leaving you again.'

'Yes you are. I do not want you underfoot.'

Maglor stepped forward. The blade slid along the side of his neck, leaving a shallow cut.

'Return with me, brother.'

The sheer unfeasibility of this request stalled his anger, albeit briefly.

'Fool,' he spat. 'Since you persist in this farce, I order you. Leave.'

This time it was Maglor who hesitated.

'Should you change your mind, find me,' he said at last. 'No matter what. Find me, Maitimo.'

* * *

><p><strong>XV.<strong>

_Why?_

Why had he let this elf go?

_It was his fault, for abandoning me-_

He had craved to see this elf suffer, and he had.

He had longed to witness the fear, and despair, and pain of this elf, and he had.

Yet there had been something-

-unsettling about this elf, about his poise, about his forlorn tenacity.

Something harrowing.

_He suffers enough, knowing-_

_He is weak-_

_He has killed elves, too-_

_They are disruptive, thus useful-_

-excuses.

_The Oath connects us-_

-an excuse.

There was something-

-_something_ he yearned for, still, in the knowledge that they remained, somewhere.

* * *

><p><strong>XVI.<strong>

'Someone tried to cut your throat, Your Majesty?'

Maglor started and looked up, but his eyes were unseeing; he raised his fingers to his neck.

'You would be wise not to disappear like that, brother. We were concerned for your safety.'

Celegorm.

_I would have left you all, without a word-_

He shuddered.

_Nolofinw__ë__ is right about me._

'Well? Where have you been?'

Maglor opened his mouth, and found himself choking on the words.

'Kano?'

'I s-saw him, Tyelko.'

'_What?_'

'I saw Maitimo.'

'Are you _insane_?'

'Probably.'

Pause.

'…And?'

Maglor shook his head, and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

><p><strong>XVII.<strong>

_Maitimo_.

This had been one of the last pieces lost: his name.

Taken away, or surrendered; it was unclear, now, and he told himself it mattered not.

No new name was needed for what he was now: dark flare among shadows, accursed; left with nothing but a mission, mindless of anything but his aim.

He heard the terrified whispers of elves, and they named him _Eglaniar_, blood-forsaking and by blood forsaken; and also _Delunor_, death-heralding flame.

The (_other, fellow_) creatures of Melkor would say _Golugshakh_, Noldor-lord, and flee from his scowl, sniggering.

Only this elf would now call him _Maitimo._

* * *

><p><strong>XVIII.<strong>

'Because you think yourself unsuited to reign, you mean to crown _Nolofinw__ë_?'

'You mistake my motives.'

'You want to cede power and with it, responsibility!'

'Enough of it.'

'You would dismiss me too easily for one who dislikes ruling, Kano!'

Maglor narrowed his eyes at Celegorm's tone.

'Whether or not I am king, I am still head of this House.'

'You are, aye. Yet you would bow to Nolofinwë and run off to consult with the Enemy's servants!'

'When I ought to bow to _you_, is that it? No. You owe me allegiance. And I will have it of you.'


	4. Chapter 4

I'm still not sure when this happened canonically, but since it's an AU anyway I may as well…

* * *

><p><strong>XIX.<strong>

And so it had come to this, at last.

No further delay.

'Summon our brothers,' Maglor ordered Celegorm shortly. 'At once.'

The younger elf hesitated fractionally, gave a curt nod, and departed.

Maglor watched him go.

_-consult with the Enemy's servants-_

His lips twisted.

High King of the Noldor meant to consult with no-one.

The power and responsibility were his, and his to cede, if he decided, and not Celegorm's to claim.

It even surprised him, mildly, dully, to realise how he relished it. How fiercely he was prepared to fight for his rights, if only to surrender them.

Ironically.

* * *

><p><strong>XX.<strong>

'It is not for you to tell me what I can or cannot do. Any of you. And you would do well not to ascribe my intentions to feelings of _personal incapability_, either. It is not about me evading responsibility. It is about us accepting it.'

_For so many things._

'Has it mayhap escaped your attention that we are losing not only support, but also trust, even of our own people?'

_Some say we answer to Morgoth, or eventually shall._

'I lead us. Nolofinwë could lead the Noldor.'

Indignant anger.

Scornful acceptance.

Cold fury.

Reluctant understanding.

'My decision is final.'

* * *

><p><strong>XXI.<strong>

The attack had been unexpected.

Although by this time they should have, perhaps, learnt to expect the unexpected.

And there he was, Argon, son of Fingolfin, in the heat of the battle, in a rapidly thinning circle of elves, drawn away from his family, fighting with increasing desperation.

And then he saw, and started; despite himself, despite knowing better, he started, for a moment too long.

_Cousin-_

Pain.

Pain.

Argon lashed out, swiftly, but it was too late, hurting-

_Cousin._

He fell.

'Cousin!'

A brief glance, condescending, lingering but for a moment-

'Maitimo-!'

Blood.

His cousin turned away.

_Pain-_

Nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>XXII.<strong>

The Noldorin prince fell.

_Arak__á__no-_

The Noldorin prince fell, and he turned away, but felt the elf's fading gaze bear into him.

_-cousin_-

A barest flicker of an emotion so alien, now, one he had considered abandoned so completely, that he cringed, inwardly, appalled at its presence-

Yet soon the emotion was drowned out by a wave of anger, burning, dark fury, for how had this elf _dared_ call him, call that name, call for help, when _he_ had called for naught, and not even death was granted to him, and now-

Now, both orcs and elves fled before him.

* * *

><p><strong>XXIII.<strong>

Not many who had seen Argon die returned. But some did.

The expression on Fingolfin's face was terrible.

Fingon looked pale and thoroughly exhausted. Aredhel had her arms wrapped around Turgon; it was impossible to tell which of them was shaking more violently.

'Arakáno… Arakáno…'

'He fell for certain? There is no doubt?' Fingon asked quietly, hesitant to voice the thought.

Aredhel gasped.

Turgon shook free of her embrace, stood to confront his brother.

'How can you- Do not… to that monster… _Do not-_'

Fingon took a step back.

'I never-'

'Yes, you did! You-'

'_Please_,' the father said, softly.

* * *

><p><strong>XXIV.<strong>

'I have not the patience for you, Kanafinwe. This has lasted too long-'

'That is why I am here.'

'Is it?'

The elder elf's voice was cutting; Maglor was unfazed, set in his purpose.

'I come to offer you this.'

Fingolfin stared.

In Maglor's hands, in an ornate casket, the crown shone lustrously.

_My half-brother's stubborn heir has seen reason. Although-_

'You give me nothing I could not have taken myself,' he said curtly.

'I give you a chance at peace, and ask the same of you, Nolofinwë, son of Finwë.'

And Maglor bowed.

(How little comfort this victory brought.)


	5. Chapter 5

**XXV.**

The news rang far and wide.

What Kanafinwë had usurped, what he had retained and not returned, he had to surrender.

_He is king no longer._

But of course; this elf who had traded family loyalty for comparative safety would readily sell the birthright of his House for relative peace

_His_ birthright.

_Play the ruler in my stead and step down the moment uncle glares in your direction, lest you overexert yourself in the attempt to reconcile the Noldor, how very _convenient _for you, little Kano._

If it was with satisfaction or anger he thought thus, he could not tell.

* * *

><p><strong>XXVI.<strong>

The sons of Fëanor (_five, only five now_) watched Fingolfin, the crown firmly on his temples, watched him address the crowd, tall and proud and _victorious_ in his royal glory, triumphant, hopeful, adored.

They had knelt, they had _sworn_, and there was not one among them who had not thought, if only for the briefest moment, _it was not meant to be this way._

Maglor had said it was necessary, and perhaps it had been.

He had said the alternatives were all worse, and perhaps they were.

He had not said how sorely _wrong_ it would feel, but it did.

* * *

><p><strong>XXVII.<strong>

'We wish to make it known to all that we do not consider the erstwhile heir, Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, to be our kin after his most shocking betrayal, and indeed we ecognize no rights or claims regarding his former position-'

Maglor closed his eyes.

'What _were_ you expecting?' Curufin hissed next to him. 'If he recognized Nelyo's rights, this entire affair would be invalid from the start, and if _you_ had-'

'-and we oblige any and all to spare neither hesitation nor mercy-'

'Good luck,' muttered Celegorm.

It was obvious, yes.

Maglor simply did not want to hear it.

* * *

><p><strong>XXVIII.<strong>

It was a delicate subject, that of their eldest brother, and seldom touched upon, by an unspoken agreement born of shared sorrow and shame.

It was a wound wide open, still bleeding, despite the efforts to sear it close.

And even though the brothers were all too aware of the political implications, instinctively they felt the cut close to heart, most of all, deeply personal.

It was foolish, of course; and yet to hear it spoken of so openly, to hear their fallen brother publicly denounced – it was an intrusion. A humiliation.

Or, more accurately, yet another, even further humiliation.

* * *

><p><strong>XXIX.<strong>

'I have been watching you.'

He turned, alerted, but careful to keep his expression studiously indifferent; it was unwise to disclose anything in Angband (_as he had learnt, amidst much pain-_)

Mairon. Lord of Wolves.

'Our pet lflings. It is rather amusing, the way you think you are so clever. So important, too.'

Silence.

It was unwise to take the bait (_he had learnt that, as well_).

The Maia moved closer, regarding him lazily.

'Your show of abandoning that elf was pleasant to watch, I admit, and yet…'

He leaned in.

'You glance in their direction just slightly too often.'

* * *

><p><strong>XXX.<strong>

The jewels _burnt._

Brightly. Painfully. Sweetly. Unbearably.

Blessed so no evil could lay hands on them without hurt, the Silmarilli were; Melkor himself they burnt, and their light pained creatures who chose to dwell in darkness.

And him.

_They were his._

He did not need to see them to be aware of them, always, _always _blazing in his mind, so close, so _close_ and yet unreachable (_for now_).

Upon Melkor's brow.

It was inseparable, it seemed: the one who wielded the Silmarilli, be they creator or thief, held the end of his leash, be it of love or of destruction.


End file.
